


the fear of falling apart

by reduxreactor



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, I tried my best, M/M, Post Infinity War, i haven't written fic in a million years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 21:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reduxreactor/pseuds/reduxreactor
Summary: tony doesn’t want to talk. actually, he does, but he’s not making the first move. call it hard to play, or call it being scared out of his own wit because his ex is back and aliveandhalf the universe just turned to fucking dust.





	the fear of falling apart

**Author's Note:**

> this is a case of: _i’m too impatient to wait for avengers 4 to see these two fuckers reunite after the storm of infinity war._ It’s also _i don’t know what this actually is, i just winged it and hoped for the best like all my school presentations and life in general._ anyway, enjoy! first fic of the fandom, haven’t written fic in general for over a year, apologies for any shaky characterization. not sorry for what angst may follow. unbeta’d, as per usual with my lone wolf status.

 

_Avengers assemble._

 

Ah, well, more like ex-Avengers, these days. Half have been fugitives up until this point, and really, aren’t they _still_ fugitives on the run? Tony can’t say that he’s against the help, because they all need it as this threat is bigger than anything they’ve ever imagined (false, he’s seen this outcome before, _fears_ the possible outcome that he knows of). Anyway  —

 

Tony? Tony hasn’t been an Avenger in a long time. A hero, maybe (at best), but the Avengers disbanded the moment they’d been torn apart from the inside.

 

Huh, it’s been _two years_ since then.

 

They’re a … band of select individuals with special skill sets that can be found nowhere else that comes together when their very humanity and existence on this planet is threatened. They’re not considered anything other than that, no matter what the front page of the newspaper says (do those still exist?) or what they’re spewing out on national television.

 

It’s a relief, actually, because that’s how he gets the phone call from Pepper (not including the fifty-two voicemails), and he doesn’t think he’s ever held his breath so much before. He’d been afraid of returning back to everybody being gone, because he’d just watched everybody he fought with turn to ash. ( _God, Peter._ ) She calls him, and he picks up, and they talk, albeit briefly, and then the conversation is over. It feels like only a second between them before the call drops, something about having to deal with PR. He takes notes of the way her voice shakes, imagines the redness of her eyes and panic that had probably seized her chest before everything turned to absolute fucking shit.

 

Then he has to handle everybody else. Everybody else as in all the original members of the team and some new additions.

 

Like a _raccoon_ — seriously?

 

Most of his words are verbal nonsense, tripping and stumbling through several topics. He speaks with a speed that surely most people aren’t picking up and comprehending, even if the old team has had plenty of time to endure his incessant rambling before. Tony may accidentally skip over a couple of details, such as losing Peter in _his hands_ , but they don’t need to know that. He debriefs with just enough information and talks about how they need to move forward and figure out a solution. And through all of it, his chest hurts like someone’s stepping on him, his lungs feel as if they’re about to collapse, and his knees feel ready to give. For a day, it feels like it’s been eternity instead, a state of _forever_ when it comes to pain, misery, and sorrow.

 

Seems like he attracts war.

 

And there’s no renewed sense of hope, regardless of being around the people he’d once fought with.

 

It’s also safe to say he doesn’t quite meet anybody’s eyes, and especially not Steve’s.

 

Fucking Steve.

 

Not literally.

 

He wishes. Maybe it’d hurt less.

 

As soon as he can, he relieves himself of the company, feeling the air as _too tense_ , too tight. As if it’s not already difficult for him to breathe, being around all of them makes him feel like the wind’s been knocked right out of him, or more specifically, he’s forgotten the natural nature of just breathing. People he once considered his friends falling back into his life just as abruptly as an alien spaceship decided to grace their presence in New York isn’t exactly the ideal manner to being thrust into the state of reconciliation. (Was he ever a part of _them_ in the first place?) It’s too sudden— it’s not as if he hasn’t considered the circumstance at which they’d all meet again— and he can’t say he’s not surprised, either, that this is how they’re gathered together once more, but Tony doesn’t know what exactly he’s supposed to do. How is he _supposed_ to react?

 

Put on a fake face, of course. That’s the obvious answer. He should be thankful they’re here to help, and he _is_ , but there’s this weight pressing him into the ground telling him that he absolutely does not belong around any of them. They’re the ones who walked away from him. If they want to talk to him, they’ll have to come find Tony themselves, and quite frankly, Tony doesn’t actually want that.

 

Sort of. That’s a lie. He does want to talk to an extent, maintain some sort of company, but he’s never been the type to verbalize his emotions, let alone be open in _general_. Tony is far too paranoid, anxious, and every step he takes is on thin ice. There’s a knife in his hands that’s supposed to be pointing toward somebody, but instead, he’s got it pointed at himself.

 

Tony doesn’t know what to expect. One moment he’s working relatively peacefully— exclude the guilt and brooding— in his workshop, and the next, that serenity has been disturbed. Did he _not_ tell Friday to lock down his workshop?

 

Suppose not, given he’s been silently hoping for someone to come keep him company.

 

_Of course it’s Steve fucking Rogers._

 

Fingers instinctively reach for the closest wrench he can find. “Rogers.”

 

“Tony.”

 

What tense air he’s escaped from earlier comes barreling back into the room. _Great_ , his sanctuary has been poisoned, and it’s not exactly like he can just leave, because Steve’s standing there right at the door with arms crossed over his chest, doing that entire _I’m a Worried Dad_ look that he seems to often exude often around those he associates himself with when he gets even _mildly_ concerned.

 

And it’s weird, because Steve still has this beard and longer hair, and it seems like time has _aged_ him, or perhaps distance, if it’s wishful thinking (last he knew it, the man barely aged a day in five years). The saying, what is it, that distance makes the heart grow fonder? Tony thinks it’s sort of _bullshit_.

 

Quite frankly, he’s not even that upset at Steve anymore— not about him necessarily protecting his best friend, but the fact that he’d been lied to in the first place, because he’d placed his trust in a man who was supposed to be his friend, and friends aren’t supposed to lie to each other, at least, not like _that_ . At the time, they’d spent enough time together for Steve to know how parents have always been a sensitive topic for Tony, not that his vulnerability regarding that subject was a good reason to withhold that sort of information. Stakes had already been high, and the magnitude of the situation had only escalated because Tony was already _hurt_ then, and he’d just ended up with more salt on a fresh wound.

 

(Plus, Tony admits that it’s his fault, too. Overreacted a _little bit_ , if he gives himself any credit.)

 

Is it possible for him to avoid any conversation with Steve? He sure as hell wants to try, and he’d probably be humoured, too, because that’s the thing with Steve. He’s _stubborn_.

 

A quiet, hopeless sigh slips between parted lips. Could he excuse himself, maybe, with the fact that he needs to go find some pain meds? ( _Thank you, Thanos, for kindly stabbing me with my own weapon._ ) Oh, no, Steve would probably offer to go find them himself. _Fuck_. He’s literally trapped in his own safehouse. The walls feel like they’ll cave in on him, but they don’t move an inch. His heart, however, feels like it’s contracting, lungs tightening the way they always do when it comes to a conversation with Steve.

 

Tony filters through a million possibilities and excuses that he could attempt, but it’s only the inevitable, and if there’s anything Tony knows, it’s that he can only delay the inevitable for so long before it catches up to him. He can’t outrun his mistakes or his past no matter how hard and fast he sprints, no matter how much his legs burn. God, life is a series of never ending shit that piles up on him until he can’t bear it anymore.

 

“If you had something to say,” Tony starts rather carefully (surprisingly), “now would be the time to say it. I don’t have all day to be consciously aware of your overbearing presence while I try to make some repairs.”

 

Repairs— what repairs?

 

There’s a shift in Steve’s posture, as if he stiffens a bit, turns defensive. “Is that how it’s going to be?”

 

“Well … yeah.”

 

A sigh, something between disappointed and exhausted. Tony knows it even after two years of missing out on it, finds himself reacquainting himself with every bit of Steve’s ticks and tells. “I … heard that kid was with you. The one from Queens?”

 

Lips press into a thin line, and knuckles could bleed white. “Yeah, he was. Good kid, really strong and insanely intelligent. Made too many pop culture references.” Using past tense makes him want to hurl himself back into space and never return.

 

“I’m sorry, Tony.” There’s genuine sympathy— _empathy?_ — there, and he isn’t sure how to process this feeling stirring in his guts.

 

Eyes slide shut, the very memory of losing Peter replaying again, again, and _again_ . Slipped right through his fingers, stupidly apologised for no reason. How did he become worse than his very own father? “Nothing to be sorry for.” Can Steve tell that his voice is strained? That he _can’t_ talk about this?

 

A curt nod from the nomad. “Right, well, what’re you working on again? You mentioned repairs?”

 

He blinks. Did he just hear that right? Steve’s _not_ going to push him more for any further conversation? About Siberia? About Thanos? “That’s—” he pauses, cuts himself off entirely in fact, stunned by the change in subject. “ _Repairs_ , yes. Thanos really wanted me to die up there, I’m pretty sure. The guy threw a goddamn _moon_ at me, so I don’t know what else I could’ve expected. Threat to his plan, blah blah.” He glazes over it with ease, as if he hadn’t just faced death right in the face yet again, only to conquer it in a way that he can’t possibly even consider a triumph. It’s the only way he can bear this. Survive it. “First time I _really_ get to use my nanotech to its full extent, and—”

 

“He threw a _moon_ at you?”

 

“Why, did he not do that to you?”

 

“Pretty sure all of Earth would’ve turned to ash if that had been the case.”

 

The smallest smile threatens to spill free, and Tony stops himself. Or at least he thinks he does. Hides it all with a wince and hiss. “Too soon.”

 

“You’re right,” Steve says, laughter mixed with a hint of defeat.

 

How quickly they fall back into easy banter terrifies him. It’ll send him spiralling, if it weren’t for his immaculate slate of _keeping it together like an absolute professional_.

 

Thing is, Tony has usually been able to read Steve. _Usually_ , being the key word. There have been times where he hasn’t been able to, like in Siberia. He looked into eyes that were once friendly and warm, blue eyes he would be willing to sink in, and yet, all he could see was nothing. No storm, no skies. If there was any hint of regret, shame, or guilt, none of them existed then. That, perhaps, had been the worst of it all, to know that Steve didn’t feel _anything_ for him after the truth broke free.

 

Tony is Tony, though, and as quick as the anger and betrayal settled in him then, the overwhelming sense of loneliness and fear carved their way into his bones soon thereafter.

 

But this? _This_? No, Tony can’t have it happen again. Openness broke him thrice, he’d be a fool to let it happen again. He can’t let his ex magically trample all over his heart again.

 

Right now, his eyes are set on Thanos. His eyes are set on bringing everybody back from wherever they’d been whisked away to. Some other universe? Dimension? It doesn’t make sense for them to just fade from existence. None of it makes sense in Tony’s eyes, and though he’s seen this coming from fifty miles away, he still doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to stop him, and he certainly doesn’t know how to _revert_ it.

 

“I’m glad you’re still with us.”

 

Steve’s voice snaps him out of his own reverie. He almost chokes on air. It takes him a moment to assemble his thoughts, broken memories and threatening fears poking at his skin, prodding until he allows himself the simple pleasure of even considering what _could_ be.

 

(There’s a physical ache that runs deep within him, the blood that continues to pump despite the fact that he _should_ be dead.)

 

Tony nods slowly, hands pressing down against cold metal. “I’m sure you guys would’ve figured out a solution even if I weren’t here.” His voice is flat. “You’d be too stubborn to stop, and everyone knows you don’t run in front of a damn bull if it’s charging straight at you, not unless you want to get your ass handed to you.”

 

Even as they tiptoe around everything left unsaid, everything is still far too familiar. A game they’ve played many a time, and every time, the result turns out to be rather unpredictable.

 

“ _Tony_ .” It’s the usual reaction, Tony’s jaw clenching and gaze downcast. “You were always the heart of it all. Maybe you didn’t see it, or you didn’t _want_ to see it, but you were, and are, the center of the Avengers.”

 

“You know it broke—”

 

“— apart, yeah. Not the news of the century.”

 

“Pretty sure you’re the news of the century after you were unfrozen after sev—”

 

“You ever gonna let me finish?”

 

“— enty years. Afraid not.”

 

Steve’s arms fall down to his sides, hands sliding into his pockets instead. Tony, on the other hand, hasn’t moved an inch from where he’s been since his ex waltzed into his workshop without notice. This is all a _terrible idea_ , because they can’t just become the two they once were before everything went awry, and yet, Tony wants it. His heart wants it more than anything, but his mind won’t allow it. Refuses to let it become truth, become reality, because he doesn’t know how much longer he can suffer when it comes to this sort of pain. It’s an old friend, misery and sorrow and abandonment, but just how much longer can he go with always expecting the worst possible outcome to come to life?

 

Or does he give in, let it hurt, and learn how to heal?

 

When did being an adult become ten times more difficult? _Jesus Christ._

 

“I know I hurt you, Tony. I hurt us both, and I’m sorry for that. But I’ve missed you, I won’t lie. Being on the run is tiring, even for a supersoldier, and no matter how far I ran, it always came back to you somehow. And I’m not saying that we should get together again, be what we once were, because we aren’t quite those people anymore, but I’m hoping that we can still work together. Defeat Thanos and … then— then we can figure it out from there. Do that together, too.”

 

Those are words that Tony takes a moment to try and process. _Then we can figure it out from there._

 

_How were you guys planning on beating that?_

 

_Together._

 

_We’ll lose._

 

_Then we’ll do that together, too._

 

Call him a sentimental, nostalgic piece of work. His laughter is nothing but breathless, a tilt of his head back as eyes slide shut. He can’t believe this— the immediate response his mind and heart comes to. He doesn’t know why this seems to be the case, how carefully he can play his cards and still fall into Steve Rogers’ hands despite it all, how he thinks he’s always one step ahead but seems to end up right behind instead.

 

He drops his head back down, chin hitting his chest lightly, eyes raising to meet Steve’s gaze. And it’s not cold steel he meets. It’s fond, familiar warmth, reminding him of what they once were. A clear blue sky. The sight of taking a fresh breath after holding it for so long under the unmerciful waves of the sea. He almost says it, almost says “ _together sounds good_ ,” but he doesn’t.

 

Instead, the corner of his lips quirk up and his nod is more like a sway of his entire body, relenting to the fact that he _knows_ that this is a war he can’t win on his own; and, if there’s anybody he wants to fight it with, it’s with Steve. His sun on a grim day, his torch through narrow and dark hallways.

 

At the end of the world, Tony will only burn if Steve’s at his side.


End file.
